The Three Gary Debbs
by Artful Dabbler
Summary: Set directly after my story 'The Empty Flat', this is a rewrite of one of the most infamously 'Johnlock'ian original stories: 'The Three Garridebs'.
1. Prologue

WATSON

They'd told her almost everything – almost. Returning to 221b after an unimaginable game of cat and mouse and the arrest of Sebastian Moran, he and Sherlock had been caught up in a flurry of floral-scented attention as Mrs H had demanded a play-by-play account of themselves. Once again he was embarrassed to feel envy twisting in his chest as their landlady clasped Sherlock's face and mussed his curly hair, chastising him for the dangers he courted. The cardboard cut-out of Sherlock's profile had lain bent and forgotten on the floor under the broken window, and he remembered staring at the neat hole in the neck of the preposterous decoy. Then, when she'd left them, Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom, closed the door, and left him standing in the empty sitting room, chilled by a draft from the bullet hole in the window snaking across his bare feet on the gritty Persian carpet. He mounted the stairs to his own tiny bedroom listening the strains of Sherlock's violin, heeding the old sign of his flatmate's desire for solitude. John remembered thrilling with a sudden thought: _could he, should he, call this man his 'flatmate', or even his 'friend', now?_ He couldn't say. He really couldn't. What had happened there, across the road? Momentatily the sound of the violin had fixed him to the floor as it fixed Sherlock's presence again in the flat, in his life, into the very fabric of reality. He even recognised the piece, though he couldn't name it.

The next morning, though John rose early, Sherlock was already gone. Half a pot of coffee and a clean mug on the counter helped alleviate the pang of anxiety he felt at finding himself alone in the flat again. The coffee was strong, and fuelled him into action. He saw the kitchen and sitting room with the eyes of the living for the first time in months, and what he saw horrified him.

He'd never been so domestic. Perhaps he drew on a store of energy that had been slowly banking up over months of mourning; the desire to _do_, to fix, to create order out of chaos overwhelmed him and he couldn't work fast enough to satiate it. Only rarely did he stop, and that was when the memory of Sherlock's hand on his waist the evening before, the press of his thumb – a memory so potent that it became real sensation – overwhelmed every other thought and action. He'd pause and let the recollection wash over him.

Of course, he was careful not to work himself up for nothing. Sherlock had learned something new, and for Sherlock, that was an end in itself; it wouldn't occur to him that it mattered much, that it changed anything. _He isn't wired that way_, he kept reminding himself. _It meant, Christ, too much to me, nothing to him. Leave it._ What did it matter that he felt as though he'd handed Sherlock a gun, opened his arms, and invited him to shoot where he liked? But he was determined: if he couldn't be _with_ him, he would be a part _of_ him. He could at least be more than just a friend, couldn't he? He took a long drag on the dust-laden air of the sitting room, scenting life returning. True to form, when Sherlock came back to the flat after checking in with Lestrade at New Scotland Yard, about mid-morning, they'd settled into their old routine with every appearance of ease. They never spoke about it, and in a way, he was glad.

Sherlock had been gone long enough that the news had moved on. Fortunately for them, the parliamentary elections were approaching, and these overshadowed his return, which barely made it into the papers at all. Sherlock's reappearance in the world of the living wasn't to be a sensational one, but like a seed sprouting in the dark earth. He was able to get the blog back up and running and requests for Sherlock's help began to trickle in. They weren't the national crises that had been his making in the years before his disappearance, but as Sherlock himself was always insisting, it was the minor, personal cases that often held the most interest for him, and Sherlock was ready, aching to work again.

The first case worthy of writing up for the blog, that of 'The Three Gary Debbs' was an odd one which turned out to be far more interesting than it had promised to be at first glance. It cost one man his sanity, another his freedom, and it cost himself the price of a shirt and a trip to the A and E. Yet there was certainly an element of comedy, and a bit of tragedy, and a bit of… well, perhaps not _everything_ ended up in the blogged version of events: almost everything – almost.

**Want more? Review please!**


	2. The Scam

HOLMES

Sherlock ran his finger around the rim of his cup, and sucked on the bitter latte foam while he waited for some response from John. He didn't have to wait long.

'You must be joking.'

'Why?'

'Sherlock, it's a scam…an obvious scam.'

'Why obvious?'

John cocked his head to one side as though he couldn't believe that he, the great Sherlock Holmes, could ask so absurd a question. 'Some arsehole is preying on little old biddies, trying to get –'

'You're wrong.'

'Excuse me?'

He would have to advance carefully now. John was nearly at the point where he would stop enjoying this conversation, and he couldn't have that. To everyone else in the café who bothered to observe them, it probably looked as though John had ceased to enjoy himself some time ago. Sherlock relished the fact that the notes of pleasure lingering in John's expression were visible only to himself. 'You're wrong,' he repeated, recognising an edge of enjoyment slipping into his own voice. He watched John pick at the rim of his paper cup with careful, square-tipped fingers. Sherlock pressed the bag containing their weekend food shopping between his feet. He let the moment drag out.

'Alright, then, how am I wrong?'

Sherlock had him back again. 'You used the plural to describe a single victim. There aren't any others, only our client.'

'He's our client now, is he?'

'Spam-bots are unmistakable, and the people who use them cast as wide a net as they can. No one uses email to try to scam strangers one at a time; it wouldn't be worth the bother.'

'Maybe he's rich, or maybe he has rich connections.'

'He's nobody, as far as I can tell: his address, for a start – not a wealthy area.'

John was getting frustrated with him. He thrust his empty cup aside and dragged the printout across the tabletop towards himself.

'Well, how else do you explain this? It's ridiculous. Seriously, Sherlock, no one – no one – could look at this thing and think it's genuine.'

'Oh, the request is genuine, but the game behind it? That's something else entirely. Read it again.'

'Sherlock, I've already read it.'

'No, I mean read it aloud…to me.'

'_You've_ already read it.'

'All the same, please?' Sherlock asked, biting the edge of his own coffee cup.

He could have told himself that he didn't enjoy the power he had over John, who, where Sherlock was concerned, required only a few good manners and a charming glance to be persuaded, but he would be lying. John read silently over the text of the curious request that had been posted on The Blog that very morning, his eyes tracking the lines with the methodical smoothness common to such men of middle years, who learned to read before the internet was pervasive. Sherlock closed his eyes to help him focus on the facts in the letter, and on the sound of John's voice.

'_Dear Sherlock Holmes. Yesterday I got an email from an American named Gary Debb, who said that he was going to come to London, all the way from Kansas, to meet me. He explained that an elderly bachelor he knew in America, an eccentric millionaire also called Gary Debb,' _Sherlock could hear that John struggled to control a grin that threatened his composure,_ 'had just died, and being eccentric and having no family, had decided to leave the whole of his estate in three equal parts to three men who shared his full name, if three such men could be found to sign the paperwork. The living Gary Debb who contacted me explained that the deceased Mr Debb believed his name to have some lucky power. The living Mr Debb said that he could find no one else of that name in America, but was excited to find me here in London._ Sherlock, this is too idiotic. I can't go on,' John chuckled. He opened his eyes, his concentration broken. 'This is either the funniest or the saddest thing I've ever read.'

'Counting your own work? Carry on.'

'Right. _Mr Debb—_are you listening?'

'Yes.'

_'_Only it looks like you're having a narcoleptic fit.'

'I'm listening.'

Fine. _Mr. Debb will be arriving tomorrow. I don't like the idea of inviting a stranger into my home, and it's difficult for me to leave my house to meet him somewhere else. But I'm not a rich man and if what he says is true, it would mean everything to me. I would like your help to figure out whether he is lying or not, and if he's telling the truth, to help us find another Gary Debb so that we can make this will business come true. I have attached the original email so you can see for yourself. Yours faithfully, Gary Debb._ There.'

Sherlock opened his eyes again in time to see John fold his hands over the page and fix him with a challenging gaze, like a schoolmaster who has been given an unacceptable piece of prep work. It was Sherlock's turn to pick at the rim of his coffee cup. It was his turn to speak. 'If it is a hoax–'

'Which it is.'

'Obviously. You didn't let me finish. If it is a hoax, then this American Mr Debb, or whatever his name really is, has some elaborate scheme in mind – something different than the usual sort of internet scam.'

John shook his head. 'Such as?'

'I don't know yet. I haven't got enough to go on. You notice that the email doesn't request any personal information, or banking details–?'

'No, but if this scammer is going to force his way into someone's home –'

'He's a bit more traditional, then.'

'Are you sentimentalising over a robbery?'

'No...There hasn't been a robbery yet. We don't know it's about robbery. If it is, then I'd like to prevent it. I haven't done one of those in ages.'

John laughed, and the sound made Sherlock smile. John's smile was like the sun peeking out from parting clouds. In his months alone on the hunt for Moran, days would go by in which Sherlock spoke to no one. He had missed this: he missed proving himself, sounding off of someone who knew him well enough to challenge him, someone with whom he could be, had to be, entirely genuine. He felt a tingling pain in the newly-healed wound on the left side of his chest – a souvenir of his days on the run – and wondered when, if ever, he would be allowed to feel regret over the times he'd had to lie to John.

'Sherlock?'

He'd been silent too long. 'I want to meet both of these men, find out who we're dealing with.' Where had he let his gaze wander, while he'd been thinking?

'I can hazard a guess without even leaving this café. I know _exactly_ what kind of people we're dealing with.'

John was talking again, but a more important thought had struck Sherlock and he stared at the far wall as he contemplated it: he _wasn't_ a friend, exactly – more than that. But what?

'If you're serious about doing this, Sherlock, we'd better go.'

Colleague? In part. Partner? Yes, but how?

'Sherlock, you in there?'

'Sorry,' he replied, standing.

'You sure it's not narcolepsy?'

'Finished your coffee? If we're going to catch up with Mr Debb before Mr Debb arrives, we'd better go now.'

John shook his head and smirked. 'The great Sherlock Holmes, back in action.'

Sherlock cracked a sideways grin as he followed John out of the café into the brisk air, tasting bitter coffee on his tongue.


	3. The Plan

WATSON

Even though the water had been close to scalding, John still felt filthy. He toweled down by the mellow light of the reading lamp perched on the back of the toilet, giving his close-cropped hair a particularly vigorous rub. The smell of the rooms they had visited that afternoon lingered in his memory if not his nostrils. Their client, for so he would have to be called, had implied something odd in his letter – that he couldn't leave his flat – and it had taken them no time at all to discover why. John recalled how, after they had knocked and, after a pause, announced their presence at his door, he had heard scraping and muffled rustling from within and, following the clicking of several locks being turned over, the door had jolted inwards just ten inches – the full extent that the door could be opened against the hill of accumulated junk that extended over the full floor space of the flat, save for narrow and endangered walkways that trailed between the rooms.

It was books, mostly – yellowed, black-blooming, their pages curling and crumbling in the musty damp of the basement flat. John had always thought that he enjoyed the smell of old books, but now… The narrow wedges of floor he had been able to see, and the tops of every uneven stack had been dusted with flakes of rotten paper and plastic, peppered with the leavings of mice. In the quiet between their halting introductions, John could have sworn he heard the sound of vermin deep within the stacks. Mr Debb led them through to the heart of his obsession. _It's not a very expensive collection, Mr. Holmes, but it's a good collection, and cataloguing just that corner there would be several months' work. You see, there isn't much point in me going out anymore, with so much to be getting on with right here at home, now is there? Can I offer you tea?_ The sight of crusty coffee mugs and takeaway boxes scattered on the book piles – a dozen of them at least – had made John's throat tighten.

Mr Debb, an emaciated man in his mid-sixties, had twisted with some embarrassment when, on offering them a place to sit, he discovered that he had nowhere to put them. In fact, the only visible chair in the entire place had been in front of Mr Debb's computer. Sherlock had noted straight away that he had tabs up for half a dozen book dealers, and Mr Debb referred to the websites in the loving terms of friendship. Sherlock had been remarkable. John had never seen him work in the presence of illness, and his delicate handling of their delicate client left him impressed. When Sherlock had asked the old man why he appeared so uneasy, he'd run trembling hands through his thin grey hair and explained that he was expecting the American within the hour. In the end, they'd had to wait only a few more minutes before their expected visitor knocked at the recluse's door. John had been relieved, for it meant they could get their business over with and he could escape into the fresh air.

John wrapped himself in his bathrobe and thumped down the stairs to the sitting room, where the fire in the hearth animated the walls with shifting, yellow light. Sherlock was in his chair, his eyes shut and his black jacket thrown to the floor at his feet. He was reclining with half a glass of red wine, a jewel in the low light, balanced on one thigh. John silently helped himself from the bottle on the little side table and collapsed into his own chair opposite, arranging the folds of his robe in the interest of decency.

"Better?"

"A bit. How could someone live like that, Sherlock?"

"I don't know."

"You still think the American's going to steal something?"

"Yes. It fits."

"Well, good luck to him. Are we eating tonight?"

"Pizza should be here soon. What I do want to know—"

"It was just…rubbish. Everywhere."

"—is why he lied about how long he's been in the country."

"He said he'd just flown in, didn't he?"

"He hadn't."

Sherlock opened his eyes and tipped his head towards the hearth. John raised his glass to his lips and watched Holmes' eyes take on lively flecks of gold, and noted where the fringe of his hair reflected ruddy firelight. The glass balanced on his thigh swayed minutely, but Sherlock was so still that it was in no danger of falling.

"I suppose he didn't sound very American."

"No. And did you see his shoes?"

"I mostly tried not to look at the floor, actually."

"They were at least six years old, and from a London maker. The American has been here for quite some time. London has worn down his accent and his heels."

John smiled and sipped again, feeling the warmth of the wine pour through his arms and relax the muscles in his hands. Maybe Sherlock was right to disparage his writing; he was so good at turning a phrase himself. He wondered often how Sherlock might have worded the stories that had made him first famous, then infamous. It was a silly question, really; the answer was simple. He wouldn't have written them at all.

"But what could he want in that flat, Sherlock?"

"I don't know, but something. Did you see the shock on his face when he came in through the door?"

"We must have looked the same when we came in."

"He saw how hard it'll be to find the thing he's looking for."

"It's possible."

"Then there's the next part of his ploy – sending Debb to Birmingham tomorrow. Clearly, he just wants him out of the way so that he can search the flat."

The lie about Birmingham had been obvious to John as well. At first, the American had been startled to find him and Sherlock in the flat, and had looked from one to the other with a mixture of fear and anger sharpening his features. He demanded to know who they were and said that he and Gary, as he insisted on calling the old shut-in, had private business to conduct. Without wasting a moment, Sherlock had introduced John first as _Doctor _Watson, and motioned to the bag of groceries he held in his hand. The American had stepped backwards and nodded, relaxing visibly and clearly understanding them to be the old man's care workers. After getting over his initial shock, the American visitor had been all charm and good news, taking from his pocket a grainy photocopy of an ad for "Gary Debb, General Contractor" – a small-businessman based in Bourneville. He'd explained with a pained expression that unavoidable business would keep him in London the following day, but if Gary would go in his place and have the contractor sign the necessary paperwork, then he could have his share of the inheritance as early as Thursday of the following week. He claimed to have phoned the contractor already and insisted that the man had been happy to work with them. Sherlock had been silent throughout the elaborate con, watching it unfold, finding its weak points.

The recluse had been wracked with doubt, repeating how difficult he found it to go out, making every excuse he could think of, getting angry at one point, but it was clear that the thought of so much money was wearing down his resistance. _It's only a couple of hours on the train_, the con artist had insisted. _If you leave tomorrow morning, you can be back in time for dinner._ The old man agreed, in the end. The American had even taken the chance of buying the train tickets, and these he'd handed over along with a hefty document that genuinely resembled a last will and testament.

"So, this American's going to get what he wants, yes? His con worked. Debb's going to be out of the way all day tomorrow."

"Yes, but there will be one slight problem for him…"

"You mean the mess?"

"No. I mean us."

"Us?"

"We'll be waiting for him."

"Ah." John drained his glass.

Sherlock plucked his own from where it was balanced and stretched luxuriantly, like a cat basking in its own self-satisfaction. When he'd settled back into a position of repose, John noted that the top button had come undone on Sherlock's shirt, exposing the long line of his throat. John shifted, crossing his legs and rearranging his robe, feeling uncomfortably warm in the glow of the fire. However strong his feelings had been before that afternoon, they'd intensified when Sherlock had insisted on leaving their bag of groceries with the old man in an act of pure charity. John had never been certain that Sherlock was capable of a purely selfless act. Now, John was satisfied on that point, even if it did leave them with nothing in the flat but a bottle of wine. Now, studying the profile of the man opposite, the anticipation of tomorrow's old-fashioned stake out, to right one more wrong in the world, stirred him profoundly.

"John?"

"Yes." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Sorry. I'm sorry. What were you about to ask?"

He smiled. "I was going to ask you if you were okay with coming along. Tomorrow, I mean."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good." Sherlock leaned forward then, wine bottle in hand, refilling John's proffered glass and fixing him with his steady gaze. "I wouldn't like to go alone."

"You-you won't. I'll be there," he responded lamely, twitching when Sherlock's hand rose to steady his own on the stem of his glass.

John ached, desperate to know if what had remained unsaid between them was nevertheless understood. Just weeks before he'd been certain, _certain _that nothing more needed saying – that there _was_ an understanding between them. The passage of time had worn away all confidence, and John was pressed between doubt and frustration. It wasn't as though he could just ask.

Sherlock had looked away the moment that he put aside the empty wine bottle, and John could tell that his thoughts were fixed on the possibilities contained by the day to come as he stared into the fire. John traced the edge of his profile against the blackness of the room beyond their immediate circle, and knew he wouldn't be sleeping well that night.

**As always your comments are very welcome. Leave a message!**


	4. Interlude by numbers

HOLMES

Step one, left side; second step, middle; skip step three, right on four, right again five…

He was glad that he could remember the pattern. At one point he knocked his empty wine glass on the bannister, and even with no one to appreciate it, he rolled his eyes at his own clumsiness: no sense in knowing how to ascend the stairs silently if you accompany yourself all the way on percussion. A whispered chuckle escaped his lips at his own feeble joke and he clapped a hand over his mouth. Two interesting things happened - One: he realised his own tipsiness. Two: he had a flash of memory – his hand pressed to John's lips in the darkened sitting room of 224, the night they took down Moran.

He stopped half way up the stairs to gather himself a little. He put down the glass for starters, and ran his mind over the sequence that would take him creak-free to the top landing.

Middle of six, skip seven, middle eight, right edge of nine…

He probably needn't have bothered. John had had just as much to drink. He was probably fast asleep by now. Sherlock checked his watch: Twelve-forty – fifty minutes after John had gone to bed. He'd have read for fifteen minutes, then his eyes would have been too heavy to carry on. He would have searched the coverlet for the bookmark, found it wedged under a fold of his bathrobe, replaced it in the book, put the book aside, and switched out the light.

Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself at the top of the stairs. He bit his numbed bottom lip as the floorboard creaked beneath his foot – a new one to add to the sequence. He'd work it out tomorrow. Passing the bathroom door, he noticed that John had left his bedroom door open four inches. _Strange_, he thought, _I always hear him close his door at night. It's his habit_. _Why's he left it open?_ Sherlock peered around the corner and saw John languorously asleep atop his coverlet, still wrapped in his white bathrobe. His book was beside him on the bed.

Sherlock drank in the sight like another glass of wine, and it had the same effect. He'd never seen this before: John, at ease, self-possessed, asleep in his own bedroom. One arm was thrown wide, his hand spread on the mattress by his hip; the other was lost beneath his pillow. In the gloom, Sherlock could just make out that he had one knee bent, one bare foot resting on his opposite calf.

"_P_," Sherlock whispered to himself with a little puff of air. "_Perfect_." He took a step into the room. He knew what John wanted – had known it for such a long time. It was within his power to grant him… to give him… He took another step into the room. His own hands felt like slabs, looking at John's small ones, and he folded them over his stomach as he advanced further into the room.

He was standing over the sleeping man. Sherlock could see from his utter relaxation, his perfect stillness, that John was in deep sleep. He smiled. John had an incredible ability to lose himself in sleep. A hurricane could blow through the room and he would sleep on. He lowered himself gently onto the edge of the bed.

John didn't stir. Sherlock shifted himself, twisting around until he had only one foot on the floor and he ran his hand over the coverlet to smooth it down. He picked up John's book and set it down on the bedside table. He covered John's open hand with his own.

Nothing.

He leaned forward to study John's face.

Nothing.

Sherlock could smell the resinous tang of wine on John's breath, and feel the heat of his skin, though perhaps there was a little of both these things emanating from himself as well. His bathrobe was only moderately closed over him, and Sherlock let himself see all that he could see. He trailed his eyes over every inch of skin like a silk veil. Was it wrong to indulge himself this way?

_Truly the voice of an addict_, he thought. _When did this become my drug?_

Long enough ago that it was in his system. He needed this. He wanted more. Staying away so long had put him in withdrawal, and now, if he let himself, he could binge. He drew his eyes back to John's face, so expressive when he was awake, and his parted lips. _He wants it. _I _want it._ _Just…_

He lowered himself awkwardly over the prone form, and closed his lips, lightly as he dared, onto John's. Quickly as it was done, he pulled away, expecting a sudden start.

Nothing.

Sherlock sighed heavily to himself, feeling warmth rush through all his limbs. He rose, and with a single glance behind him and a bemused smile on his lips, he retreated, kicking his forgotten wine glass down the creaking stairs.

**Please review if you read! Feedback is the fire under my butt!**


	5. The Hit

WATSON

He couldn't place it, but there was something different about that morning – a feeling that he'd missed something terribly important. He tried to recall the previous evening to discover the source of his disquiet, and so remembered that, in the day ahead, they would break into the home of a hoarder, crouch amid the refuse of a misspent life, and await the arrival of a third housebreaker whose luck had run out.

_Brilliant._

He dressed, remembering the obscene filth they'd encountered, in clothes he could happily burn at the end of the day. He stretched the muscles of his left shoulder using the routine his physiotherapist taught him after his stay in hospital. He knew that if he didn't, his old injury would pain him if he sat still for too long.

Looking out his narrow window, he saw that it was an overcast, but bright day such as was his favourite. John found it odd that they would be stealing into someone's house in the middle of the morning, when his every sense of such things demanded that it should properly happen in the dead of night, like their last break-in when he and Sherlock… _Don't. Don't dwell. It's no good. _

He looked for his watch and found it on his bedside table next to his novel. He tried to recall putting the novel on that table the night before. He couldn't. Instead, John thought to himself, with a sigh, _Right, three glasses is my limit. I must be getting old. _

Descending the stairs, he wished that he'd bothered to put on socks.

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Why is there broken glass all over the stairs?"

"No idea."

He stepped as gingerly as he could, sweeping aside the larger fragments of what looked suspiciously like one of his good wineglasses. He winced as tiny fragments pressed into the creases between his toes. He brushed one, then his other sole with his open hand, enjoying the sensation and wondering to himself when he got so tactile.

Sherlock was in his usual place in the sitting room, his laptop in front of him, with an untouched coffee at his elbow. He didn't look up when John came into the room, but he paused his typing. John stood in the doorway and took a moment to appreciate that he was wearing his favourite grey shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and John wondered when he began finding forearms such an attractive physical feature; pity that the shirt would probably have to be thrown away after the day's adventures.

"We should be going soon. Mr. Debb's train is in half an hour," Sherlock remarked.

"You're sure it's a bad idea to just tell him we're coming? Explain what's going on?"

"He'd never agree to it. He'd lock himself in."

"Aren't you going to dress down for this?"

"Why?"

"Just… no reason. How are we getting in?"

"Kitchen window."

John didn't like to think about the state of the kitchen in such a flat, so he wouldn't. Instead, he walked into their own kitchen and set himself to making two plates of breakfast that would sustain them even through the longest, most disagreeable stakeout.

It turned out to be a rather simple matter to enter the old man's flat, if not a pleasant one. The window at the rear of the building was accessible under the grating over a light-spill into the basement kitchen. The window had been locked, but its wooden frame so damp and rotten that John had been able to simply peel the whole thing away from the window opening with a satisfying crack, panes and all, and hand it up to Sherlock, who was waiting in the free air of the alley. As soon as John had broken the seal around the window, the familiar stench of the interior wafted out and assaulted his nostrils. John's anxiety about their mission rose, though he led the way into the flat, twisting awkwardly through the window and practically sliding to the floor in a cascade of mealy newsprint and empty food tins.

An hour had passed, and since their entry they'd cleared a space for themselves behind a collapsed bookshelf and settled down, anticipating the imminent arrival of their quarry. The light in the flat was dust grey, cold and dead as ash. It took no time at all for John to realise why Sherlock had chosen that particular shirt for the mission: he disappeared against the background; his dark hair and pale skin only helped him blend into the monochromatic roomscape. He sat, leaning against a stack of ancient catalogues, with his eyes closed and his long fingers laced over his stomach. He had a cobweb in his hair, and John fought the urge to pick it out as long as he could. When he gave in, Sherlock flinched at the sudden touch, but smiled faintly when he discovered John's reason for it. John, meanwhile, crouched rather uncomfortably, his shoulder aching despite his morning precautions.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What could anyone want in this room?"

"I don't know."

"Can anything, any of this, have any value?"

"Probably not."

"Then, what's it all for? The con, I mean."

"The American, whatever his name is, needs Debb out of the flat. That much is obvious. The ruse with the false name, the incredible story about a will – all of that is for no other purpose than to get a difficult man out of the way."

"But why, Sherlock?"

"Only he knows. It might have nothing to do with Mr. Debb, or his obsession. We'll see soon enough."

John hoped beyond hope that Sherlock's hunch regarding the American's plan was correct, and that they hadn't put themselves there for no good reason. John could hear the traffic noise outside, and with every bus that rumbled by, settling dust whispered all around them. Cramped as their improvised blind was, it had at first been difficult to give themselves even a few inches of personal space but, as the time passed, John noticed that they grew less concerned about that, until his knee was resting comfortably against Sherlock's thigh. Yes – _comfortably_ was the right word for it, and he could feel a shared heat building between them. He was grateful for Sherlock's cologne, for it enclosed them against the reek of creeping damp.

They didn't speak much after the first half hour, taking the role of waiting hunters in ways that tapped sleeping instincts old as time. With the dissipation of the adrenaline rush of their illegal intrusion, John let himself relax and focus his half-closed eyes on the rhythmic rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, hoping that he wouldn't be caught staring. He didn't mind all of this as much as he'd feared he would.

It was a further forty minutes before Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed them in the direction of the front door. He sat up, moving with cat-like grace as he pulled himself into a ready crouch. John was with him, shifting his legs under himself and keeping his head low. His breathing already shallow, John did all he could to keep silent and devote his senses to the figure he could now hear in the hall outside. There was a metallic scrape, a rattle, and the sound of a lock turning reluctantly over. Then the familiar drag of the door opening and thudding against the book hoard told him that the American had made his way inside. He heard the door close softly behind the intruder. John moved to rise, but Sherlock put a firm hand on his forearm. His mouth went to John's ear, and he could just make out the words _'Let him make the first move.'_

The American's first move was to do a lot of swearing as he stood staring at a particularly congested corner of the room. John saw that Debb, for he had no other name for the man, carried a large, empty rucksack. Well, not quite empty. He dropped it to the floor and unzipped the top.

Sherlock was moving again, lifting himself slowly to get a better view of the crouching man. John rose with him. Debb seemed angry. He looked fixedly towards the unseeable floor with his hands clasped to either side of his head. He grabbed armfuls of stacked books and threw them wildly away from the corner he was intent on. He kicked and he swore and he used his hands like shovels. John couldn't help but listen with horror to the sound of vermin scrambling to escape the violence being done to their nests.

"John," Sherlock whispered almost imperceptibly. John pressed his shoulder in reply, to tell him he was listening. "When he turns around, I'll stand up."

"And do what?"

"Say hello."

"Sherlock, aren't we going to call the police?"

"Good idea. Text them a tip-off," he growled, beginning to rise.

"Alright," John breathed, "Wai– hold _on_, Sherlock. Just, let me do that before you do anything stupid. I think I saw—" John wondered how many other people had the Met on speed dial. He had just hit _send_ when Sherlock sprang to his feet. John was up next to him, every sense alert and fear stinging his limbs.

"Good morning, Mr Debb."

Debb spun on the spot, and before either of them could react, he reached into his coat pocket, whipped out a pistol and fired three shots blindly in their direction amid an explosion of yells and oaths.

A hot, electric pain tore through John's right side, spreading through his chest and stopping his breath. He watched, his vision swimming, as Sherlock sprang forward, hurling broken books at Debb and shouting "Drop the gun! Drop it!" as he went. John's legs collapsed under him and he shut his eyes, forcing himself to breathe evenly as he clutched his side. The pain was familiar, nightmarishly familiar. There was a buzzing in his ears as wave after wave of adrenaline raced his heart and made his teeth chatter.

He looked up in time to see, with watery eyes, Debb's gun sail over the book stacks and hit the far wall. Debb was yelling, but John couldn't make out the words. Sherlock's voice was deep and clear.

"John? You've got the handcuffs?"

He wanted to reply, but his breath caught in his throat.

"John?"

He pressed his forehead to the sharp edge of the bookshelf, feeling a warm stickiness coat his fingers.

"John!"

There was confusion in Sherlock's voice. John made an effort, hating the sound.

"I'm—"

There was a crash and a yell as Sherlock hit the American with something large and heavy. John caught sight of the man sprawled on the floor with blood running down his face, before he closed his eyes again. Then he felt Sherlock's strong arms around him, and he was being lifted backwards to lean against the bookshelf.

"Are you alright? Please, John, say something!"

"Sherlock."

"I didn't see the gun. I'm sorry, I didn't see the gun!"

"I did."

It was worth a wound, John thought. It was worth many wounds to see, when he parted his heavy lids, the depth of feeling that shaped Sherlock's face - feeling he had restrained and veiled through all the days that John had known him. John watched his clear blue eyes turn wild, his bowed lips go white, his smooth forehead crease. For the first time, John thought, in the deep blue calm that filled him beneath the pain on his surface, that he saw Sherlock laid bare, vulnerable – far more so than he himself was, with living blood seeping from his side.

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"Let me see."

"I said, I'm fine."

Sherlock took hold of the front panels of John's shirt, one in each hand, and ripped them apart with a force that tore the buttons clean off and jarred his aching body. The cool air felt good on John's damp chest, but his awareness was entirely fixed on the touch of Sherlock's hot and trembling fingers on his bare skin as he wiped away blood and searched the wound. The scent of his cologne was immediate, overpowering the cloying smells of blood and books. His heart hurt.

"Oh, God."

"No, you're right," Sherlock cried with an immense sigh of relief. "You're fine. It's just a graze, gone clean through."

Sherlock wiped his hands on his own shirt and clasped John's face, not smiling, but with relief breaking through him. He pulled John forward and fixed him with a sharp, swift kiss that took John's breath and thought from him. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder, and a change overcame him.

Sherlock's face set into a marble stillness as he turned and glared at the American, who was sitting up with a dazed expression on his bloodied face. His eyes closed, John heard danger in the words that followed. "This is your lucky day, Mr Debb, or whatever your name is. If you'd killed John, you wouldn't be leaving this room alive. Now, explain yourself."

John was sinking.

"Why should I?"

"Tut, tut, Mr. Debb. This is no time for bravado. The police are on their way, and you've made a mistake by attacking me."

The room was swimming around him, and he felt ill.

"It's _him_ I shot."

"Yes."

John could see Sherlock standing erect in the centre of chaos. Debb was in an animalistic crouch, his teeth bared.

"Tell me: why are you here?"

He was losing the thread of the conversation, and he felt hot all over. Sherlock was in control. Everything would be alright. He could hear sirens.

"It's this goddamn room! How was I supposed to know some loony'd moved in?"

"What are you after?"

"Doesn't matter."

Sherlock was yelling, livid. John's vision closed in until he could only see a circle of the room immediately around him.

"You don't want to tell me that you shot John for no good reason. I really can't stress that enough. Now, why… are… you… here?"

"Under the floorboards – there – that's my stash, only—"

"Drugs?" his tone pressed like the edge of a cold knife. "You're after drugs?"

"Left it behind when I got sent to prison five years ago."

Sherlock grabbed the man by the throat and hauled back one arm, his hand in a white-knuckled fist, but at that moment the police burst into the room, and John let go, sinking into the painless embrace of a dead faint.

**People who review are on the side of the angels, even if ...etc.**


	6. Epilogue

**HOLMES**

"Ow. Sherl-_ow. Ow!_ Dammit. Must you do that?" Sherlock, sitting in a chair by John's bedside, marveled at how his face registered every nuance of feeling. Discomfort and anger were there, to be sure, but secondarily to the sheer relief of being home after ten hours at a busy A and E. John was on an upswing, and Sherlock knew he could push.

"Did you complain this much after the first time you got shot?"

John didn't look up from his book. "Are you kidding? The man in the bed next to me had his leg off." Sherlock muffled a laugh with the back of his hand. "I wouldn't have dared. And it's not funny."

"Sorry."

"And they were very generous with pain killers in the field hospital."

Sherlock moved to rise. "Can I get you some? Do you need them?"

"No. Thanks. I'm fine - just, quit jiggling, will you?"

"It's your mattress. It's too soft. You should try—"

"What, sleeping on a granite slab, like you?"

"I seem to recall you slept there perfectly fine once."

"I passed out from emotional exhaustion."

"Oh, I suppose—" Ah. That had been his fault, and Sherlock knew he could never apologise for it.

"It's not the same. Can you pass me that pillow?"

"Here. I can leave, if you prefer."

"I don't," he replied firmly, tucking the extra pillow behind his back so that he was sitting completely upright – a soldier at repose.

"Are you…warm enough?"

"Yes."

There were some things he could apologise for. Today's events were on the list. John never paused, never questioned him about the dangers he led him into. He was there at his side as a matter of course, and that was something Sherlock knew he could never take for granted again. That he could endanger the life of this man…

"I'm sorry you got shot."

"Thanks."

"I mean it. Stupid of me not to think he might be armed."

"Sorry, what?"

"I said it was stupid of me to take the risk."

"Couldn't hear you. Say that again?"

"It was stu— har, har, John. Very funny."

"It's just such a rare pleasure to hear you—"

"I know I make mistakes. Sometimes."

Sherlock could hear the unspoken agreement that passed between them in that moment. John lifted his novel from his lap to arrange the coverlet over his thighs and Sherlock watched him, his gaze tracing the outline of the strong limbs beneath the blanket. He could tell that John was preparing to say something, and anticipation crackled in Holmes' mind.

"…Maybe I don't mind getting shot."

"Why not?"

"Maybe getting shot is what it took."

"What it took?"

"To… you know."

"To—?" Sherlock wasn't going to let him get away with sideways reference and innuendo. His addiction demanded more than that.

John took a plunge. "I can't see you deciding to kiss me at any less harrowing a moment, can you? …Sherlock?"

"No. Definitely not."

Sherlock shifted his socked feet on the mattress again, recalling his midnight foray into John's bedroom the previous night with a faint smile. John gave a groan of discomfort and Sherlock dropped his own book into his lap and apologised, saying it was the last time.

"Maybe you should get a more comfortable chair."

"Maybe."

"What did the police say about Gary?"

"He was picked up at the station in Wolverhampton. Apparently he had a panic attack while waiting for his connection."

"Poor man."

"Hmm."

"They brought him home?"

"This afternoon."

"It's sick, really."

"They said he didn't want to enter his flat. Too much disturbance."

"Where will they take him?"

"Dunno."

"Poor man."

Sherlock had stopped reading entirely. Instead, his attention was given to the man propped up in bed, wrapped in warm flannels and looking pale. John squinted. It was the low light and the late hour, but he'd be surprised if John didn't take himself off to get fitted for reading glasses in the near future. Sherlock thought to himself that they would suit John's face. His mind went to what he couldn't see: sixteen stitches on his right side, under thick gauze padding and powdery surgical tape, skin already blooming livid shades of purple and green. But alive. Well. Healing. Sherlock needed to draw John back to the conversation his own satisfaction demanded.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you…mind that I…"

"That you kissed me?"

"Yes. That." John lifted his eyes to meet his own.

"Sherlock, how can you ask me that?"

He said nothing, needing John to guide them. _Because sometimes I make mistakes._

"Look, Sherlock, you don't have to worry. You know, and I know, what's happening here."

"We do?"

_Ah, that got him_. Sherlock was pushing, pushing, and John dropped his eyes again to his book, but his eyes were free of strain. He wasn't reading anymore.

"Yes. Just…take it slow, alright? Don't overthink this."

"I always overthink things."

"Well, make an exception in my case."

"I already have."

John fixed him with one of his steady, unrelenting looks that caught him and held him motionless.

"So have I."

"John, I don't—I don't know what to do now, I mean next. This is new territory."

"See, this is what I mean. Just, don't try to make a plan, alright? It'll just go wrong. You—you carry on being you. I'll carry on being me, and somewhere in between, it'll be fine. You don't have to worry." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking his head. "I'm not going anywhere." His eyes returned to his book, and he took up the story from where he'd left off. There was a beautiful silence filling the room.

Suddenly, Holmes knew exactly what he needed to do next. He put his book aside and drew his feet from the mattress. Amid weak protestations of pain, John shifted himself, reading still, and Sherlock rolled onto the mattress next to him. His temple rested against John's left hip, and John, after a brief pause as though deciding something for himself, let his left hand fall open on Sherlock's shoulder while keeping his book open with his right. He cradled Holmes' curly head in the crook of his elbow. His top shirt button choked him as he settled in, so he undid it. He shifted closer, remembering the first night they shared a bed.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"What's the scent you're wearing today?"

"Scent?"

"Yeah, cologne."

"I don't wear cologne."

"What, not ever?"

"Can't stand the stuff."

"Oh."

"Why?"

"No reason."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed. This really was new territory, this closeness. He could feel John's hipbone under the soft cotton, could feel the warmth of his flesh against his cheek. He was content, but unsettled in this new angle, this new relation. He wanted the moment to draw out. He needed to taste it, know it, live it.

John's hand was moving; Reading still, he was also smoothing his fingers, gently, over Sherlock's chest and the touch was electric. He kept still for fear of breaking the spell that held them both in the moment. He could hear his own heart beat faster, and knew that John could sense it, too. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. John's arm pressed him closer as his thumb found the edge of Holmes' shirt front. He ran his thumb along the edge, slowly, back and forth in a repetition that Sherlock sensed was far from unconscious. He took a deep breath to increase the contact between them, needing more, his mind flying back to the night before when John had been so unresponsive to his touches. No longer. John responded now, his hand becoming firmer on Sherlock's sinking chest as he exhaled. His thumb found its way under the edge his shirt, and he ran it slowly over his smooth bare skin. Sherlock's breath caught, his lips parted and he pressed his eyes more tightly shut. John didn't pause, didn't flinch at Holmes' reaction. His hand was steady as he worked his other fingers down between his shirtfronts until his whole hand was spread over his bare chest. John swept his warm hand to the left, catching his nipple with his little finger. Holmes felt like he was falling and being lifted up in the same breath. John moved his hand to the right, and sensation exploded in Sherlock's chest as John's fingers found the rough scar that, until that moment, had been a source only of pain and discomfort.

"What's this?" John's voice was gentle.

"Knife wound." Sherlock's was slurred.

"Tell me how you got it?"

"One day. John?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't stop."

Sherlock could sense the grin spreading across John's face. He pulled his hand back, which brought panic in the first instance, until he realised it was so that he could undo the next two buttons. This he did with remarkable ease, and then his hand was back inside, running down Holmes' chest and over the lean flesh of his torso. He pressed his fingers, careful and smooth, into every contour they encountered, and it was all Holmes could do not to arch his back in response. He covered John's hand with his own, knowing that it trembled, and pressed it to him with all the strength he could manage. He felt John shift through his hips, and knew that he'd put his book to one side. Then the lights blinked out.

Thank you for reading. Your feedback would be much appreciated! :)


End file.
